


Bilbo Finds His Craft

by Porphyrios



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Balin Is A Fusspot, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo is a poet, Books, Courting Rituals, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Erebor, M/M, Oral Sex, Poetry, Possessive Dwarves, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: Bilbo is courting Thorin and has to prepare a gift with his own two hands.  There's only one problem... other than cooking, his hands aren't very useful for such things.  He never learned to make anything.  What's a hobbit to do?
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 28
Kudos: 269





	Bilbo Finds His Craft

"Balin," Bilbo asked quietly as they sat in his rooms sipping tea, "you told me that Thorin and I would have to exchange betrothal gifts before marriage. Can you tell me a bit more about what that entails?" Balin smiled, unable to resist providing information on dwarven customs. Bilbo and Thorin had been dancing around each other long enough, the hobbit had decided, and he was tired of being unobtrusively chaperoned.

"Oh of course, of course," the white-haired dwarf beamed, stroking his long white beard, "The gifts are always crafted by the suitors themselves. Thorin will make one for you, and you will make one for him. It was very well done getting the princes to make your courting beads; they did a beautiful job," Balin said, admiring the bead where it swung at Bilbo's ear, "and it was politically astute as well, showed the support of Thorin's family, that sort of thing. Still, you will have to make the betrothal gift with whatever your strongest craft is." He gave his best avuncular smile, though Bilbo felt a cold, crawling sensation beginning in his stomach.

"I see," the hobbit began tentatively, "so... what sorts of gifts are considered appropriate, then?" He blinked at Balin, whose smile only got wider.

"Oh lovely things! Weapons, armor, jewels, fancy ornaments, wood carving, sculpture, anything really, but the absolute best that you can make! Nothing else would do, and of course no dwarf would dream of presenting anything less to their One." Balin snorted. "And with your One being the king of course it's assumed that anything you bring will be appropriate as a royal gift, as well."

"Of course," Bilbo said faintly. "Unfortunately, I find myself at a bit of a difficult spot. I don't... I don't really have a craft, per se. I cook, I write, but I'm not a smith or jeweler, woodcarver or any of those sorts of things. Is there any provision for...?" Balin was once again looking surprised.

"How unusual! I'm sorry, Bilbo, I don't mean any offense, but all dwarves have at least one making craft, we're known for it. Not everyone is good enough to specialize, of course, and miners like Bofur or cooks like Bombur have crafts distinct from their usual trades, but... I don't think I've ever heard of someone who didn't have _any_ craft. Perhaps... well, you have time. Perhaps now would be a good time to learn one?" Bilbo nodded philosophically in response. After all, he just needed to make one nice thing. How hard could it be?

It could be very hard indeed, he eventually discovered. 

Bilbo knew better than to try to work directly in metal at a forge; there was nothing in him of a blacksmith, of that he was quite certain. He spoke to Bofur about learning to carve, and the miner was delighted to give him some pointers. Even so, Bilbo's first attempts to carve were less than stellar, even in soft pinewood. His subsequent attempts were almost worse. After he ruined his tenth block without producing a recognizable form, Bofur recommended that he try wax, since it was softer and more forgiving. He even suggested that if Bilbo could sculpt wax, he could work with Fili to cast his sculptures in gold - surely a gift worthy of a king. Wax was... well, he had to admit it was more forgiving. A great deal more forgiving, in fact, since he could heat it and smooth over his (many) mistakes. Unfortunately, wax brought to light the real problem more effectively than wood - Bilbo simply had no eye for proportion. He knew what he was trying to do, but when his hands tried to produce the image he could see so clearly in his mind things went awry fairly quickly. The delicate control needed for tiny strokes and precise movements was something that the dwarves trained their children in from birth; even the dwarven toys that Bilbo had seen trained clumsy young fingers to be more aware, producing one result with a certain pressure and something different with more or less pressure. Middle aged hobbit fingers didn't take so easily to such tasks, he quickly discovered.

By the middle of spring, Bilbo was running out of both time and patience. The only benefit he had realized from his frantic attempts to learn some form of handicraft was that the rumors of his supposed non-stop debauchery with Thorin had subsided a bit... no matter how much a dwarf might want to gossip, even they knew that learning any work of the hands was a long and frustrating process and left little time for sexual marathons around the mountain (or whatever other bloody thing they thought he got up to, Bilbo grumbled to himself). The hobbit was also becoming increasingly frustrated because scandalous rumors aside, he found that it was difficult enough even to steal a kiss from the king. Hopes of anything else were quite out of the question, and images of Thorin naked were beginning to haunt Bilbo's days as well as nights. Despite meeting almost daily with Thorin Bilbo was becoming increasingly frustrated with the courting process, though he knew better than to even mention betrothal gifts; just raising the topic had horrified Thorin as something that was quite off-limits for a suitor to opine on. One day Bilbo was sitting in the library wearily trying to decipher the diagrams in a book on jewelry design when Ori came bustling up to him.

"Bilbo! Sorry to disturb you but... would you have a moment?" Ori smiled down at him and Bilbo couldn't help but smile back, no matter what his level of frustration.

"Of course," he replied sheepishly, "it's not as if I was making any progress on this, anyway. These diagrams were designed for people with three eyes, I think." Ori gave a soft giggle and sank down into one of the chairs nearby.

"I found something I wanted to ask you about, and I also wanted to... well, to ask your advice on something," Ori said with a hopeful expression. "I found a book from Arnor written in Westron and... although now that I think of it, perhaps it wasn't from Arnor, but..." The slight little scribe shook himself. "At any rate, it was speaking of something called the language of flowers. Do you know anything of that? I've never heard of such a thing, but I remember that hobbits had quite large gardens and... why are you laughing?" Bilbo was giggling uncontrollably.

"Yes," he finally choked out, "I'd say I know a bit about it. Ori, the language of flowers is terribly important in the Shire. Most of our communications during courting or other social circumstances are done using it. What precisely did you want to know?" The scribe broke his own habit of nigh-silence in the library with a loud exclamation.

"Really? That's magnificent! I... well, I have so many questions!" It turned out that this was a true statement, though perhaps an understatement. After an hour had passed during which Ori had grilled the hobbit relentlessly on the subject, Bilbo's head was spinning and his stomach was letting him know the hour in no uncertain terms.

"Ori, perhaps we could meet again somewhat later to discuss this further. I'm late for lunch and... but wait, you said you wanted advice on something." The scribe's soft exclamation told Bilbo as clearly as words that he had forgotten it as well.

"Oh, yes, thank you, I nearly forgot! Thorin had asked that I prepare an official record of our journey, from the Blue Mountains to the final battle, so that there was a record of our deeds for future generations. I have the information noted down as to dates and deeds and such, but honestly it's terribly dry. I was wondering if you could help me, I don't know, put it in a proper narrative so that... Bilbo?" The hobbit's eyes had glazed as he thought about the project.

"Ori, you're brilliant!" he exclaimed, grabbing the shocked dwarf and hugging him. "Yes, yes of course! But don't tell anyone I'm helping... in fact, if Thorin asks, tell him you haven't gotten to it yet and... give me those notes! Wait... they're not in Khuzdul are they?" It only took a few seconds of thought for Ori to catch up with Bilbo's thinking and his broad grin matched the hobbit's. With the young scribe's help, Bilbo organized a stack of parchment and ink, a large collection of wax tablets to act as drafting materials, and set to work with a will.

Over the next few months, the book developed nicely. For all his lack of skill with burin or chisel, Bilbo had always had a strong, lovely bookhand and he took especial care with the letters, decorating each finial with love and colored inks. Each page was finished and set aside, then gathered into chapters and organized into bundles. After a bit of dancing around the subject with Balin and swearing him to secrecy, the hobbit was told that he was permitted to commission components as long as he assembled them himself. He got Kili and Fili to make decorative panels for the covers for the book he was making, delicate angular traceries of gold over dark leather and studded with emeralds and rubies. In the center of the front cover sat a rich blue sapphire cabochon more than an inch across, laboriously engraved with the great seal of the House of Durin, an elaborate intaglio of stars, crown and anvil. As Bilbo stitched each signature together carefully by hand and bound them with a thick, noxious glue into the spine of the leather cover, the decorations on the cover and back of the book caught the light in a lovely fashion. He prayed that this would be an acceptable gift.

There was more than the book, however. One night Bilbo had lain in bed, tossing and turning in the grip of unpleasant dreams. Dwarves stood all around him, sneering that he had only written things others had gathered, that he was no more than the scribe to a scribe. Finally Thorin himself had glared down at him in the dream, demanding "But what have _you_ made?" in a sneering voice. He woke in a panic and ran to his desk. Over the next two days, words poured from his mind at a surprising rate and he ended up with two original sonnets. One was the sort he would have prepared for any proper hobbit courting, though he felt the mention of a bee in it was quite risque. The other was an extended mining metaphor, but he hoped the dwarves (and especially Thorin) would understand that he was trying to meet them halfway. Once those were finished, he prepared them both on a scroll and bound it with a ribbon woven of gold threads for presentation.

Eventually, their betrothal feast arrived. Despite Bilbo's worries, the book was finished and so was the scroll. The book was wrapped in a piece of silk in his quarters, bound around with the same gold ribbon he had used for the scroll, but he still worried that the poems would be seen as silly or displeasing. 

The feast was splendid. The hall had now been properly decorated, not just with new banners but elaborate lamps had been found and lit above them, new tapestries were hung here and there on the walls, and the whole room had been made especially festive by an enormous arrangement of pastries and betrothal cakes that had been erected in the center of the room. There would be dancing and music later, but the main event was the presentation of the gifts. Even more of Thorin's family was present than usual; his sister Dis had arrived the previous month, and Dain and his son Thorin Stonehelm had come for the festival, so the hobbit felt as though he were being put on trial rather than just facing those he knew. As a result Bilbo fidgeted his way through the meal, eating little and causing Thorin to pause more than once and ask quietly "Are you well, _ghivashel_?"

"It's just nerves, Thorin," he replied patiently each time. Thorin would nod, but the sidelong glances would begin again. By the time everyone finished their meal, Bilbo was about to crawl out of his own skin. When the hobbit stood and went before the high table, a small table had been set on the dais to mark the spot before Thorin. When Bilbo looked around the table with all the faces smiling at him he felt a bit light-headed. He knew better than to glance backward at the huge crowd that was watching. Thorin was sitting in an almost-throne, flanked on one side by Dis, Kili and Fili. As guest of honor, Dain sat on Thorin's right with his son Thorin beside him, a handsome young dwarf whose beard had only begun to come in. Dori and Ori were seated at the high table as Chamberlain and Chief Scribe, but all of the original company was there except Bombur. 

Drawing up his courage, Bilbo cleared his throat and looked at Thorin. The love burning in those blue eyes centered him a bit, and he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Reaching into a bag he had brought, he withdrew the bundle containing the book and the scroll and set them on the small table. "Thorin, I have prepared two betrothal gifts for you." A rustle of surprise went through the room, but when Bilbo motioned to the items he had set out, everyone craned to look. He handed over the package containing the book and held his breath. The king examined the ribbon and silk, nodded, and began untying the ribbon. When he opened it, he stared for a moment before smiling. Before he could open the covers, Bilbo said "I made this book for you. It contains a record of the actions of our group, with reference to a scribe's notes for events that happened before I joined the party, from the time the party left the Blue Mountains until the end of the Battle of Five Armies before the gates of Erebor. The words are my own, though the deeds belong to all of us. I made the book with my own hands. I hope it pleases." Thorin beamed at the hobbit while Ori made a soft sound, clearly itching to see the book itself.

"This is a kingly gift, indeed. I accept with gratitude." Thorin's words were warm, and Bilbo smiled nervously.

"There is more, though. In my own land of the Shire, betrothal is often accompanied by poetry. I have composed two poems for you, one in the traditional Shire form and another that I hope will be appropriate for dwarves. With your permission?" Thorin seemed intrigued, and nodded with raised brows. Bilbo cleared his throat and began.

_"Come walk with me, my love, in garden bright  
To see the blessings of the dew fresh wrought  
The lazy bee shall pass us by in flight  
Its burden sweet from blossoms freshly caught  
Where delicate arbutus shyly peeps  
Hid beneath the leaves in garden bowers  
Where daisies push and honeysuckle creeps  
And scented roses hang their heavy flowers  
The sun will gild each petal soft with gold  
The songs of birds shall guide us through the day  
And with each step bright mysteries unfold  
To feast our eyes on all the colors gay -  
But even with all nature's brilliant sight  
Your heart with mine shall be my sole delight."_

The room clapped and murmured politely, but Bilbo could tell the talk of flowers was lost on them. Dis' brows were drawn down a bit, and Dain and his son looked frankly bored, though Balin was smiling. Ori smiled hesitantly at Bilbo, and when he glanced over, mouthed the word 'flowers'. The hobbit nodded, sighing. Silly of him to have thought the dwarves would appreciate such things, he supposed. "Flowers are more important in the Shire than gold, and thus the motif is floral; for the second, I thought metal more appropriate." He paused then recited:

_"If I were ore within the mountain's heart  
My lode should hide until you came to mine  
Your pick alone would shatter stone apart  
To there reveal the subtle metal's shine  
Only your bright fire could smelt me forth-  
Draw me shimm'ring from the broken scree  
And when the spoil is heaped beside the hearth  
An ingot glows, shaped from the heart of me  
Then take up tongs and fire and anvil bright  
Your hammer swings with strength to forge my form  
Each strike you set infuses me with light  
And at your hands e'en quench seems over warm.  
The shape you give my metal ours alone  
Enduring love in shining light and stone."_

There was no applause. Bilbo looked around into a ring of red faces, slack lips, and heavy breathing. Dis was sweating and staring at her folded hands; Dain had covered the ears of his son, who was staring gape-jawed at the hobbit in spite of it. Ori was... good lord, he realized, Ori was actually panting! The entire room was deathly silent, though the sound of hoarse breath could be heard from behind him. Oh dear, he thought. This would seem to be one of those cultural misunderstanding moments. At that precise moment, Dwalin interjected "Queen Dur's third tit, Thorin, if you don't marry him, I will!"

A feral growl came from the throne. "Do not joke so if you value your life. Bilbo is _mine_." Blue eyes seemed almost to glow from Thorin's face as he motioned the hobbit forward brusquely. Caressing the book and scroll, he said "I accept this... gift of your hand," in a voice more appropriate to whispering into the ear of a lover than making a speech in front of a huge group of people, "and in return I give you this, made by my own hand, to pledge myself to you." Thorin reached down beside his chair and produced a box from the shadows. He handed it to Bilbo who set it on the table, opened it and gasped, entranced. It was a crown made as a circlet of flowers, but oh such flowers! Picked out in white gems were four arbutus flowers, one at each of the cardinal points, and yellow sapphire honeysuckle twined around them with emerald leaves. Ruby rosebuds appeared here and there, all flowers which were used in Shire courting. Bilbo shot a wry glance at Ori and thought, spying for Thorin, I see, but the young scribe was still redfaced and flustered from the poem for some reason. Thorin seemed to have gained some composure while Bilbo was examining the exquisite craftsmanship of the circlet, and when he glanced up the king asked "Do you accept?"

"Yes, with all my heart," Bilbo said, setting the crown on his head. Thorin stood, as did everyone else.

"Witness our betrothal!" he cried, and the assembled line of Durin clapped once, all together, making a peal of sound, echoed by cheering behind Bilbo as the crowd began the celebration. "Now, my kin, I bid you celebrate as you wish. I beg you excuse my betrothed and I for we have... things to discuss." The snickers of the assembled dwarves barely registered as Thorin picked Bilbo up bodily and carried him off. 

"Thorin! What... _Thorin_!" he called, but the other dwarves pretended that nothing untoward was going on before Thorin had carried Bilbo into the king's rooms and slammed the door. "What on earth...?" Bilbo fumed. "Put me down this instant!" Thorin dropped him onto the bed and Bilbo felt the coronet he had just been given fall off. He had barely retrieved it and set it safely aside before the king began kissing his neck while unbuttoning his waistcoat and sliding his fingers along the hobbit's sides. "Thorin..." he moaned, taken completely by surprise. What in the Green Lady...?

" _Ghivashel_ ," was the only response from lips which seemed entirely too skilled. The short black beard dragged against each inch of bared skin with almost excruciating pleasure, lips and tongue dancing along smooth flesh. Bilbo moaned and arched up, overwhelmed. He had dreamed of Thorin like this and never thought that the night would end in such a manner, but he was past the point of resistance. He clutched at Thorin's hair wildly and felt a rumble go through the sturdy frame before him. Thorin wrenched his pants off and plunged his lips over Bilbo's hard cock even as the hobbit gasped and writhed. Bilbo was no blushing virgin, but this was like nothing he had ever experienced before; this was closer to war than dalliance, an attack of pleasure.

"Thorin, fields and flowers, stop," he pushed him off, the king's lips coming off of him with an obscene slurping sound that made Bilbo shiver. "At least take your own clothes off," he said, fighting for some trace of control in this onslaught. Glowing blue eyes stared at him before a small smile appeared on Thorin's face.

"As if any dwarf could stop after such words," he murmured, leaning down again and claiming Bilbo's hardened flesh. The hobbit surrendered as he felt his climax building and cried out loudly as he spent himself into the sucking mouth. Afterwards, Thorin undressed himself as Bilbo lay, mostly naked and panting, and the king smiled down at him. "It almost killed me to wait to finish the ceremony... how did you write something so painfully erotic? We will have to keep it under lock and key."

"I... hadn't known it would be seen as quite that... uh... bawdy," Bilbo said, admiring the muscled form coming into view. "But I must say, it seems to have accomplished the goal quite nicely. I didn't realize we were permitted to do things like this once we were betrothed or I would have finished that book months ago," the hobbit said breathlessly. Thorin paused, arching an eyebrow.

"Indeed. You do realize, though, that you will never convince people that you weren't doing all those things now, writing poetry like that?" Bilbo groaned in dismay as Thorin grinned. "Perhaps you can become the Court Poet instead of..." The hobbit's lips stopped the rest of that sentence from being said and the rest of the night was spent doing all the things they had both been dreaming of. Bilbo realized later that it was probably for the best that Thorin had not been allowed to finish his sentence. Word of his poem had gotten out after that first night to the farthest corners of the mountain. Anyone who hadn't been present was given an even more prurient version of what the poem had said. Even worse, despite their best efforts, copies of Bilbo's poem got out somehow. 

To Bilbo's chagrin he had a new reputation. The rumormongers of Erebor were delighted that the hobbit had found his craft at last: he was, it appeared, the first dwarven pornographer.


End file.
